Ice
by LaValentina
Summary: A little piece from Cesare's POV comparing Charlotte to Lucrezia.
1. Lucrezia

When she comes to him he is afraid. It's not something that he can admit freely, but the fear inside him is a living thing. With all his ambitions and all his dreams and plans of glory he has never told himself that there was anything he couldn't have. The cardinalate was a duty to perform but he knew that in time he'd throw off those shackles and be free. That the limits of those red robes would always be temporary. But the one barrier between him and his golden angel, his sweet, gentle dream will never disappear. He would always have to call her by that one name that brought him peace and torment. _Sister_. She is the entity of light and laughter that makes his life bearable, the one person who is at once closer than any other and yet can never be close enough.

Every time he holds her close he knows he has to let go. Every time their eyes meet and she sees into his heart he forces himself to look away instead of closing the distance and letting their lips meld. Sometimes he can pretend that she is only a sister to him, his favorite person in the world and nothing more. But then the light of a candle, or a shaft of sunlight will fall across her face and she is no longer be his kid sister but a siren. A siren with knowing eyes, a body sprung up from his dreams and laughter that is wonderfully too wild and too free.

Even in that wild moment of insanity when he'd kissed her it hadn't taken him long to remember. Then, he'd wanted to show her how very much she was loved. That to him she was more than a sister, more than a friend, a lover, a confidant. She'd stared at him with eyes full of hurt and uncertainty and disappointment in a face wet with tears and for once his words had had no effect. _They can crumble to dust for all I care_. He'd said it, and he'd meant it, but it hadn't removed that horrible look from her eyes. She had never not believed him before and at that point he didn't think. For one sublime moment he'd held nothing back, and kissed her with all the fire that he'd kept banked with guilt and sheer will power. She hadn't pulled away then, just as she'd never pulled away from him. Instead she'd wrapped her arms around him, held him close, moved her mouth and tongue with him and sighed. That whimper of a sigh had haunted him for days long after he'd lost the taste of her in his mouth. The feel of her surrender. _Never again_. He'd whispered it to himself and he'd meant it. That line of torment would stay there. Had to stay there.

Every sin he'd committed before had been for family; honor, obedience, love. This sin was for himself. There was no pure motive for taking his sister as a lover. She was his match. He'd always known it. But if it was possible for her to live in ignorance, then surely that was kinder. Better to let her continue to see him as the older brother who would kill for her, and not the twisted lover who would forever be tormented by jealousy. To let her wonder vaguely but never know for sure that the deep longing in her soul would never be fulfilled with anyone else. Better that than to make her dark like him, make her tainted by what was surely the devil's will. Curiosity had led to the fall of man, and she would search for the truth of him in his eyes. When he'd pulled away he couldn't meet hers. Instead he ran. Ran and cursed himself for a fool. For a brute. For a traitor.

At her wedding he'd stood apart, unable to dance with her, unable to pretend that he was pleased to lose her again to a simpleton without the courage to fight for her or the skill to please her. He couldn't dance with rage, bitterness and impotence choking him, burning a hole in his chest. He saw them sneak away giggling like naughty children and he retired to his room, telling himself that it was for the best. That the only way to truly love her was to leave her be, and choke on his own bile if necessary. Pray that the dark fire would consume itself in time and leave him scarred but free.

Instead he wakes to the touch of her hand, her fierce, sad, empty eyes and tear stained face as she crawls into his bed and pulls off her nightgown. _Am I so hard to love?_ No. The answer is strangled by sheer panic. She comes to him with intent and determination. She pulls his hands to her breasts and forces him to touch her. In then end his angel had reached out for him in the dark and pulled him past the point of no return. The pleasure of having her around him, inside him is near to pain, the sharp clarity of sensation overwhelming. He touches her with worshipful gentleness and kisses her with the aching sweetness that he would have given her on her first wedding night. She looks into his eyes and for the first time he looks back as she moves over him with her hands in his hair. In her eyes isn't the light he expects to see but a darkness to mirror his own, an inner demon reveling in the glory of completion. And when she sees that he knows, that he understands what it means, they shared a smile of recognition, of gleeful secrecy.

That first time she takes him.

The second time, he is ready. He flips her onto her back, now that she is primed for him, and takes her with force, with dark skill, with attention to detail and stamina to spare. She meets him delightedly, takes him as deep as he endeavors to go all the while looking into his eyes, showing him that she is unafraid, undeterred. That there is nothing he could show her that could make her turn him away.

It makes his eyes burn and his heart sing.

When the second orgasm rips up his spine he fights to choke back the cry of exhalation that rises in his throat. When she comes the last time, her eyes tell him that she knows. She knows everything now and she feels the same.

He falls asleep with her scent on him and his soul utterly at rest for the first time in his memory.

When he wakes the next morning the dread is waiting for him along with the sickening feeling that he has betrayed her in the worst way, broken every vow that he's ever made for her sake in the dark watches of the night with only God and the Devil as his witnesses.

It leaves his blood cold.


	2. Charlotte

Charlotte

Every time he imagined having a wife he saw a maddening creature that would be a burden to him. Something to endure for the sake of duty, for honor, for the end goal of a dowry and a sure line of succession. He imagined someone who both expected too much and lacked the awareness to make sure demands. The prospect had filled him with dread as much as he wanted what it represented socially and could gain politically. He never imagined a woman with crystal blue eyes that sparkled with mischief and a sardonic humor that matched his own. A woman who viewed everything through a veil of hilarity and possessed a cheerful sensuality that was bone deep. A woman who kept him on a near perpetual state of amusement.

In short, he'd never expected to marry his wife.

From the beginning she'd met him head on. Unafraid. Unapologetic. Unwilling to put on a pretense. There would no fake modesty, or plays for power, no confusion as to what she wanted or expected. He'd been charmed in a way that he'd never expected or experienced before. Ursula had been the hope of playing the hero, Caterina had been two wolves circling each other waiting for the kill and Lucrezia had been a communion of two dark souls. Never had he been seduced with good humored, honesty and laughing eyes.

_For the pleasure of witnessing that scene alone, my answer would be… yes. Can you promise me more of them?_ He'd trotted her up the stairs to his bed while she giggled infectiously. Even when he was inside her the first time, that humor had never left her eyes. The feeling that she was having a ripping good time and he was part of it. He'd never been friends with a lover before. Had never known that it would bring this kind of ease. Marriage was… fun. Who knew?

He compared her to Lucrezia. It was impossible not to. Charlotte was taller, with dark features, light eyes and a fuller figure. Lucrezia was a petite confection of cream and gold, with the face of an angel. Charlotte needed virtually nothing of him but enjoyed his company and left him amused and lightened. Lucrezia required everything of him and fulfilled him while they weighed each other down.

Charlotte seemed to be the only member of the French court who didn't view him as the mongrel invited to the thoroughbred's show. He'd mentioned it during one of their trysts, while they lay exhausted and sweat sheened, dazed and still full of laughter. She'd snickered and ran a hand down his bare chest.

_They have to. But don't think that any of those women wouldn't kill to have you in their bed._ She'd rolled over then, raised up to straddle his hips and meet his lips with hers, even as he responded to the wet heat of her pressed against him. She pulled away with a sly smile as he shifted and slid inside her, bone hard, as if he hadn't spent himself inside her mere minutes ago. She'd bent down then to whisper in his ear. _You are the stallion they can't bring themselves to buy. The Borgia bull they can't admit to wanting. _

On their wedding night she is proven correct. He pulls off his shirt and the chorus of gasps and giggles that follow made him want to howl with laughter. Charlotte's sardonic eyebrow doesn't help. He know what he looks like, has worked hard to make his body the work of art that it is, but the look in those women's eyes remind him of Lucrezia faced with a second tray of desserts. Conflicted and desirous.

She lies with him under the marital sheet and asks about love. He recites scripture, all the while thinking that the idiot who'd written those words had obviously never known what it felt like to burn as he does. He lies to protect her, this woman who'd never asked for protection and she laughs again, seeing it for what it was. _You lie to comfort me because you leave tomorrow. And I love you for it._ There is no censure there. No expectation.

He spends most of the night taking her, making her exalt in ecstasy over and over, repositioning her, using all the knowledge he has of her and any woman he's ever been with to make her gasp and writhe and scream. To give her a child to cherish and love her as he never could when he leaves her in the morning. She takes it all, her laughter ringing in his ears, coaxing out his smiles one after the other. Sometime in the small hours of the morning she falls into a deep sleep, her dark hair spread everywhere, her olive skin stark against the white sheets. He cannot join her. He rises and walked to the window, opening it to feel the cool breeze on his bare flesh. When he gazes out the window, the Duke of Valantinois with ambition in his heart and an army at his back all he sees is her face. Pale skin, light knowing eyes and golden hair. _Come back soon._

Tomorrow. He will leave for home tomorrow and be with her soon enough.

Charlotte stirs and he glances over to see her now sprawled out on the bed and smiles.

She is Hippolyta ravished and satiated and he is Herackles restless and ever striving. And he takes a single moment to mourn that all her laughter and honesty never will sink deep enough to warm the dark corners of his heart.


End file.
